by Terry Tyler
I knew that young people like Evie and her friend shared one-room shacks, but until I stood within one I'd never thought about what this actually meant.
Their entire home consisted of two narrow beds at opposite corners of one side of the room, separated by a small rail for their meagre collection of clothes, their boots and shoes on the floor beneath. The other side contained a stove with its chimney, a tiny shelving space, a small table and three stools; two for them, one for a guest. On a little stand stood a bowl of water, soap and flannels for washing. That was all. That was how they lived. Cooking and eating where they slept. Washing in water fetched from the standpipe. Nowhere comfortable to sit, apart from their beds.
When I looked around, though, I didn't pity her. That she remained healthy and smiling with so little made me feel humbled with admiration.
I walked on, up the long track through the fields where much of the food of Blackthorn is grown. Workers toiled away in the warm afternoon sun. I didn't even know what they did; I have never been involved in food production. I never saw or thought about the food until it appeared in our East End shops.
Some of it made into pies, like the one I carried.
I didn't think about my mission; I wanted only to enjoy my last day in Blackthorn.
I breathed in that early autumn air and found that, despite the events of the past two days, I actually felt lighter today than I had for some time. I'd spoken to Byron and Evie of my loss, but it didn't seem to matter any more. They had lost friends; I had lost only an illusion. I was taken in by a lie, caught up as I was in the spell of the person who delivered it.
I had believed in Ryder Swift, as much as I had the Light.
And for years I had centred my life around another person who thought I was nothing, but I was his errand boy no more.
I reached the city centre, taking a last look at the market, the Town Hall and the blocks, glancing down side roads to the taverns, the library, the forges, the cobblers, stores, schools and hospitals. A mile-long stretch of bustling humanity, then on to the East End, separated from the general population by the admin building, bank and North Garden. If I walked up to the eastern city limit I would come to the laboratories, one of which was once used to make Joy, but now made only medicines, fertilisers, household products and cosmetics. I would reach the water purification depot, the stables and wagon stop, and the warehouses, some still containing precious old world goods, heavily guarded.
Every so often someone would smile at me, offering their hand as they passed.
"Live in the Light," they said.
I smiled back, but that was all. Soon I would be gone; there was no further need for me to touch hand to heart and feign devotion to a fairy tale.
I passed Thorn Lodge. I would never enter my little apartment again; yesterday evening I packed my bag and took it to Byron's flat in the blocks, where it waited for me.
Did Jet Lewis come for me last night? That, I would never know.
I walked onward, to Wolf North's house.
I smiled at the guards on the gate and approached the main door; once across the threshold I saw that Wolf's reception room was open. Tara was in there, sweeping.
I greeted her with genuine warmth; I like her.
"Is Wolf around?"
"He's taking a nap, Mr Hemsley. Said to wake him up at six-thirty so's he can get himself ready for his dinner."
"Ah―that's good." I indicated the box. "I've got something nice for him. Shall I take it through to the kitchen myself?"
"If you wouldn't mind. I've got a lot to do here, and the dining room needs going over, after."
As I entered the kitchen, Angelo was enjoying what was, no doubt, his second glass of wine. He jumped up and reached for his apron; when I held out my offering, he appeared both delighted and relieved to be presented with a main course, ready cooked.
He lifted the lid, and the delicious aroma of Evie's creation wafted out. "That's a beauty. Chicken and ham―mushrooms―ooh, and is that wine and basil?" He smiled. "This is much appreciated; I was just about to start a casserole!"
"Glad to be of service," I said. "Just one thing, though―could you not tell the governor I brought it? I wouldn't want him to think I was currying favour."
"Your secret is safe with me." He put his hand to his heart and offered me his palm; this time I accepted, because I like Angelo, too.
"And may the Light go with you; this fine, anonymous gift means I've got another couple of hours to myself―I can put out the leftover quiche from last night for a starter with a green salad, though I shouldn't really do pastry for both courses, but never mind―"
Did I hear right? "Both courses?" I know Wolf doesn't usually bother with a starter. "Does he have guests tonight?"
"Oh, yes―Ryder Swift himself, and Lieutenant Parks. Going to be a late one 'cause they've got a lot to discuss, the governor said; that's why he's gone for a rest."
I actually felt the blood drain from my face.
I stood for a moment, contemplating this news, until I realised that Angelo was staring at me.
"You alright, sir?"
I pictured them, the three conspirators, sitting around Wolf's fine dark wood dining table, concocting more lies as they tucked into the death cap pie.
I thought of Parks sending me off to follow Ryder into the spirit field; knowing about his involvement with Jay's murder, I'm now sure he is a part of the scam, too.
I saw myself running back to tell Wolf North my joyous news.
I saw Ryder, putting on his little play, just for me.
I would be responsible for the deaths of those three men.
I stared at the pie.
"I'm fine," I said to Angelo. "Absolutely fine."
Chapter 37
Byron Lewis V
He gives the guards on North Gate the equivalent of a week's pay, between them. No matter; soon the three of them will reach a part of the country where Blackthorn currency is but disks of useless metal.
Seeing the guards' happy faces when he hands over the bag of coins is a great relief; their silence is bought for this evening, at least. Once Wolf's death is discovered they will be questioned, but until then they will not mention the curious party of lieutenant, guard and shacker heading northwards.
On that sunny September evening, Byron Lewis V walks through Blackthorn's North Gate with Hemsley and Evie, knowing that they will not return. He feels no regret. The knowledge that Wolf North may be dead by the morning, and certainly by this time tomorrow, cheers his soul.
The three of them wear clothes from the second-hand stall in the market and have doused their hair, skin and boots in vinegar, in the hope that this will fool Wolf North's tracker dogs; they have no idea if it will work. They will cross streams whenever they can, in the hope that the water will confuse them further.
The land outside the north wall is untamed wasteland, interspersed with young forest. Within ten minutes, they won't even be visible from the lookouts.
He walks ahead for a moment, thinking of Indra. If he couldn't avenge her death by killing Abe Slovis, he has done the next best thing.
The evil will be cut off at the root.
He hears North Gate clank shut, and turns back to smile at Evie and Hemsley. Hemsley looks taller, somehow. Not so nerdy.
Evie, on the other hand, looks wistful.
They have asked a lot of her. If he'd had to leave behind a family he cared about, could he have been as brave?
Aware of her sacrifice, seeing her walk towards him with that confident stride, he questions whether he is worthy of a woman like her. And she is a woman, not a girl, not like most Blackthorn females of her age, who are protected from the world outside the walls by the patriarchal society of the city, cushioned from reality by the fantasy created by North and Swift.
The way she smiles at him gives him hope, though.
Not yet, but soon.
"One and a half hours until dinner time," says Hemsley.
"I wish we co
uld know," says Evie. "What happens, I mean. Who finds him, and what happens next." She frowns. "It's so bloody frustrating―I want to be there, when the news breaks. I want to see it."
"I expect we'll find out one way or another," Hemsley says. "Great news travels fast."
A shadow falls across his face as he says this; maybe he has his own regrets, buried deep. If he has, they're his own business. He can talk about them if he wants, but Byron won't push him.
The setting sun shines yellow and orange across the rising hills in the distance; the air smells fresh and clean. They turn their backs on Blackthorn, and as soon as they can no longer be seen from the lookouts, they head east.
Chapter 38
In the House of Wolf North
Dinner is served.
To start, thin slices of warm egg and bacon quiche with a small green salad, followed by a magnificent pie: golden pastry so light it melts in the mouth, packed with a creamy ham, chicken and mushroom filling, fragrant with wine and herbs, and a fine selection of vegetables: boiled potatoes with butter and fresh mint, peas, asparagus and honey glazed carrots.
The three men linger over this splendid feast, insisting on a rest before Peach brings in the pudding; Angelo has outdone himself with a light honey cake drizzled with a raspberry coulis and topped with a kiss of whipped cream. Angelo loves his old world cookery books.
As more wine is poured and belts are loosened, the men discuss potential problems; they must ensure that fatal illness is kept to a minimum during the coming winter, even within the shacks, for the Light must be seen to be watching over his city.
More immediately, they must rid Blackthorn of non-believers with minimum upset to the families involved.
Business is taken care of by the time Angelo brings in the cheese, fruit and brandy, and Wolf's guests indulge themselves in reminiscences of times past. Ryder Swift tells tales of the road, and―of more interest to the other two―the once great city of Central. Lieutenant Parks speaks of his grandfather, who was a member of the governor's advisory council on the island of Lindisfarne.
Wolf North considers what might be gained by invading such a place. Placing it under the rule of Blackthorn, under the guidance of the Light.
A future project.
A fire is lit; as summer flutters gently into autumn, the evenings grow chilly. Lieutenant Parks notices that it is way past midnight; he must make haste to the warmth of his marital bed in his apartment in Thorn Lodge while he can still stagger. Putting a hand to his stomach, he remarks that he feels a little queasy.
"I'm not surprised," says Ryder Swift. "The amount you've eaten and drunk tonight would have fed a family from Stinky Bottom for a week!" He pats his stomach. "Mind you, I haven't exactly dined modestly, have I?"
After Parks departs, Wolf North offers Ryder a bed for the night to save him the long walk back to his log cabin.
Ryder thanks him; he stretches, yawns and says that he feels it is time to turn in, too, if Wolf doesn't mind; he must be bright and alert for his ten o'clock prayer meeting.
At around a quarter to one in the morning, both men head for bed.
Danny Foster, nephew of Lieutenant Foster, shivers as a gust of wind blows in from the east and curls down the collar of his jacket. Autumn is on the horizon; he'll have a word with his uncle to see if he can get more day shifts. As a member of the North personal guard, he has to sit outside Wolf's front door during night time hours, which is way tedious. He can pass the time with the two gate guards, but he has to be careful; sometimes the governor prowls around, unable to sleep, and there's hell to pay if he catches Danny away from his post.
One hour to go. Come four o'clock his relief will appear, then he can go back to his cosy little flat in the blocks and curl into his girlfriend's warm, sleeping body. Can't bloody wait.
Danny rests his head on the wall and drifts into one of those half-waking, half-sleeping, totally freaky head-fuck dreams.
He's so drowsy that he doesn't realise, at first, that the knocking sound is not part of the dream.
Someone is banging on Wolf North's front door. From the inside.
The fuck? Why doesn't whoever it is just open the bloody thing?
Danny lurches up, fumbles for his key, and pulls it open.
Bloody hell.
It's Angelo, wearing only his underpants.
He's on his knees, clinging to his stomach, puke dripping out of his mouth.
"Get a doctor," he moans, scarcely able to speak. "Food poisoning―get a bloody doctor!"
He falls back, groaning, and Danny Foster's nostrils are assailed with the smell of the vile substance spurting from Angelo's backside.
He turns, and he runs.
Chapter 39
Evie
I'm sad, but not too sad.
Mum and Dad will have read my letter by now, and although they'll be upset that I've gone without saying goodbye, they'll know I'm safe with Byron. Hemsley says they probably won't worry too much, 'cause they know I can look after myself.
Yes, I say, but they'll worry about me getting captured and hanged, because I made the pie that killed Wolf North.
Hemsley says nobody can prove it, but I say it still looks dead fishy: my best mate is killed, Hemsley asks me to make a pie for Wolf, he dies after eating it and suddenly we've both disappeared. And then Byron says that we've got to stop talking about it because we've covered our tracks as best we can, and if we keep trying to imagine what may or may not be going on in Blackthorn we'll drive ourselves nuts, when what we've got to concentrate on is keeping ourselves safe.
It's our third night on the road. Two whole days, three nights. Byron thinks we've covered about fifty miles; on the first night we didn't get to rest until the early hours of the morning.
When I was getting tired, Hemsley said, "Every step we take is another step closer to safety."
The first night I was just knackered, but now my feet hurt like crazy, and the backs of my calves, and even my back, 'cause I've never walked anything like this far before, but Byron says that because I'm young and strong my body will get used to it.
We've kept far away from the usual roads, walking through woods; it's hard going. This afternoon we heard horses and shouting, so we hid in the undergrowth for ages, until we heard them heading back towards Blackthorn.
I've never been so scared in my life. We huddled together on damp moss and dirt, covered in soggy leaves and branches, for about an hour.
As soon as we felt safe to get up, Byron said we had to change our hair to make ourselves look different; I'd have to cut mine short. I was determined not to be a silly girly who whines about stuff like that, so I took out my knife and chopped off my plait at my ears, right there and then. They clapped, and helped me cut off the rest, then Hemsley smoothed it back with this corn oil that he keeps in a little bottle, for cooking.
They both said I look cool, and Byron said it makes my eyes look huge.
I miss my lovely hair, but I don't say so.
Byron shaved his off, totally bald, like the rougher guards. It's sexy, but I don't tell him this, either. He's growing a moustache and beard, and says he will shave his head every day to keep it smooth.
Hemsley wasn't so easy because he says he can't grow a beard, but Byron rubbed dirt into his sandy hair to make it look darker, chopped the top off so it's all spiky, and shaved the sides.
Tonight we're sleeping in a broken down old building. Byron caught rabbits for our dinner, and we had them with some leaves that he picked (dunno what they were) and potatoes that Hemsley brought with him; he's got a little pan and some spoons and knives, too. I'd never have thought of that. I just stuffed some bread and scones into my bag, but Hemsley says you need food that gives you protein and vitamins, too.
I don't know much about that sort of thing; in Shackers' End we just worried about not being hungry. I know about bloody mushrooms, though. I'm scared to pick any in case I get a death cap by mistake. That'd serve me right, wouldn't it?
&n
bsp; Hemsley says it would be ironic.
Wolf North must be dead by now. That is such a weird thought.
I haven't got a clue about directions, but we're heading east to try a place called the Five Villages, which is in Norfolk, way down the country. There's been a settlement there for about seventy years, and Hemsley says it's supposed to be good. Hope so. But you get arseholes everywhere, and it might have been raided by now.
It's quieter on the roads than I expected; I thought there would be randos popping out from behind every tree, but we've only seen one lot so far. There were seven of them, five blokes and two women, holding clubs studded with nails, but they didn't look like they were after killing anyone. They were just wandering along, larking about, and two of them were eating chicken legs.
"They might have just murdered someone for them," Byron said, "and you don't carry clubs studded with nails if you don't intend to do some damage."
Hemsley says we'll get to small settlements in Lincolnshire first, and a town called Ewerton where we might be able to get some work.
I like Hemsley loads. Everyone used to say he was a weird, boring git, but he's not, he's lovely. He's thinks about clever stuff, and he's kind. That's really important, being kind.
He says I can talk to him about Jay whenever I want, so I do. I tell him about what his life was like in Stinky Bottom, and he says it's good to talk about him, because it keeps him alive.
He doesn't seem like a lieutenant any more. He's just my friend.
Tonight, when we were lying around burping after our dinner, I said that I wish I'd got to know him ages ago, and that made him go all pink and pleased. Then I realised I couldn't keep calling him Hemsley now we were proper friends, so I asked him what his first name was.
He went even pinker, and said, "It's August."
I felt bad then, 'cause I laughed. Not 'cause it's the name of a month, because I've known plenty of women called April, May, June, October and January, but because it seemed funny to think of him having a name at all, apart from Hemsley. But he looked hurt that I'd laughed so I told him why, and his eyes went all sad. He said that nobody has used his name since his mother died.
